


Inspiration #2

by Heiots



Series: RocinanteWrites Fics (From Tumblr) [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 14:49:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16494701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiots/pseuds/Heiots
Summary: Missing Year OQ





	Inspiration #2

**I.**

She is a queen unlike the roaring tempest of fire and death. A ghost of who she used to be.

Robin does not know if these words reach her ears. He does not know if she cares. Lost in a world of her own, she speaks to no one. When Snow White beseeches him to keep an eye on her stepmother – only to ensure her safety and never to invade her privacy – he is curious but gives her his agreement and troubles her with no questions.

He begins his quest on a windless night when the queen sets off from the castle towards the woods, the moon casting its silent gaze upon them. He mentally chides her for her unshod feet, but as promised, he does not interfere with the queen’s night venture. When firelight reveals blood in her tracks, he lets out his breath, a quiet sigh, and carries on after her.

Through unmarked paths winding through the forest, she goes.

The queen with the lost words, his son told him, brown eyes soft. Help her, Papa.

She wanders on. In places where the foliage is dense, she creates a small, glowing werelight, first cupped in her hand, then floating near to guide her way. Through tall, thin trees, to a clearing where she sits amidst a carpet of fallen leaves in a shaft of moonlight. A small puff of purple smoke, and in her hand, an object he is too far away to make out. Light glints on its surface. A mirror, he guesses, or a piece of blade.

She pulls up the sleeve of her gown, revealing the inside of her forearm. Pressing the edge of the object near the inside of her left elbow, she draws it across flesh. Again. Little rivulets of blood stain her skin, tiny droplets of red watering the ground, seeping into the earth.

His breath catches. She does not weep. She is soundless.

In the morning, he stops by the royals’ table, offering his greetings as they breakfast. The queen sips from her goblet and does not meet his eyes. Her dress does not reveal her scars. He does not mention them.

He follows her again that night on the same winding path under the waning moon. But tonight, she turns her head, gazing directly into the darkness to where he stands. She knows. He steps from the shadows into the moonlight. Anger burns at her foolishness. How can she think her actions are justifiable? What would her son think if he knew?

She does not speak, not that he expects her to. At the steely glint in his eyes, her lips turn up. She is amused. His anger spikes.

“Milady,” he begins, voice tight. “You should not do that.”

Her smile vanishes. Slowly, deliberately, she raises a shoulder and drops it in a shrug. The unspoken challenge is clear; who is he to tell her what she can or cannot do? He dips his eyes to where he’d seen her cut herself with the broken shard of glass. She sighs and pushes up her sleeve. Her skin is smooth. Unblemished.

Magic. Or had she healed herself?

When he reaches out, she bares her teeth in a soundless growl.

“Regina.”

She bristles at the use of her name. But better the spark of fury in her eyes than the look of apathy.

“Let me help you.”

She would not. She could not. Even if she wanted to, she would not know how. A creature scarred and damaged beyond repair he cannot coax to safety. He cannot trick or threaten.

But he would try.

“Please.”

She regards him with mistrust. He does not know what changes, but he waits, patiently, letting her know he means no harm, and by some miracle, she allows him to approach. He touches her wrist, gently, cautiously, sliding his hand up her arm. She shivers. As if the clearing of a fog in his view, he sees what she tries to hide – marred skin with dozens of thin, horizontal lines.

He hears a sharp intake of breath. She had not expected her spell of illusion to fall through, yet it had.

For him.

She wrenches her arm from his grasp and jerks the sleeve back down, her gaze full of ire.

“I won’t tell Her Highness.”

Even as he speaks, he wonders if it is a wise choice, but the words have presented themselves, and he cannot – will not – take them back.

“I won’t,” he says, earnest. “If you promise not to harm yourself.”

A deal, he knows, she will not pass up. If she agrees, she will have her freedom to roam at night.

“What do you say, milady? I give you my word no one will know about this.”

She stares at him, suspicion in her eyes, and along with it, a hint of curiosity. After a pause, she gives him a nod, and while he recognizes it may not seem like much, it could be, perhaps, the very beginnings of trust between them.

**II.**

In the night, all else fades from her world, but for her thoughts and memories. There is clarity in solitude and comfort in silence even if accompanied by the dull ache of pain, and the more time she spends alone, the less she feels inclined to speak, until one morning she wakes up without words at all.

Snow gets flustered over her loss of speech. She consults physicians, who ramble about the effects of trauma, and provides regular doses of vile-tasting concoctions. Regina, on the other hand, does not mourn her descent into muteness; she finds it a form of freedom – one less thing to make an effort for.

As she does now every night, she treads down the path marked in her memory to a place where even Rumpelstiltskin had not found her. And yet, the thief had. He’d followed her and seen her bleed. Uncertain of his motives, she allows him to believe she remains oblivious to his spying, all the while, pondering what he has to gain. Perhaps Snow – for there is no doubt this is the work of her meddling stepdaughter – has offered him a reward for keeping an eye on her.

She does not sleep that night. The morning after, when he makes a beeline for their table, she is certain he would reveal her secret, but he does not.

So he appears to be trustworthy.

He comes to her with his son a week after she agrees to his deal and puts forth a request that she care for the child while the men are on patrol. She is no fool and is irate at the obvious ploy of using the boy –  _Roland_  – as means to break through her defences, but she does not object. The child, unlike others, does not seek to cure her. He does not rush to fill her silence with words, nor does he mock her.

The first day he comes to her chambers, clutching his toy monkey, she finds herself nervous.

What if he doesn’t like her? What if she struggles with him the way she struggled with Henry?

“I like you.”

The boy says it without guile, trailing a finger down the strings of a small harp by her bed.

“Can they hear you too?” he asks, curious.

Taken aback, she can only shake her head. She does not know of others capable of reading thoughts. Perhaps with a spell, they would succeed, but this child, as far as she knows, has no experience with magic at all.

She watches him teach the inanimate toy to play the harp, wondering if he can hear her every thought or simply the ones meant for him. When she focuses on him, calling his name, he pauses, shifting his attention to her.

 _Would you like play outside today?_  she asks.

He brightens, and then, carefully, formally, says, “Only if you want to, your m’jesty.”

 _Call me Regina,_  she says.

“Regina,” he repeats obediently, then dimples. “Do you want to play outside?”

_I’d love to, Roland. We can pick apples later if you like._

“I love apples,” he says cheerily.

**III.**

The queen takes him out to ride on her horse. They follow a sun-dappled lane, shaded by trees with branches that spread out in flat layers and leaves on the wind like little yellow butterflies. She looks like his mama, in her simple dress and cloak pinned at the neck. Or, at least, what he thinks his mama would look like. She doesn’t talk much. Not at all, because she’s lost her words. But he hears her. Like now, when she calls to him, and he hears her voice – soft, mellow – in his head.

 _See this,_  she says and lifts a hand. She closes her eyes a moment. When she opens them, there is a soft fluttering of wings, and a raven lands on her finger.  _Would you like to stroke him?_ she asks.

He looks at the great black bird, feeling a familiar tingle of fear.

_It’s all right. I won’t let him hurt you._

He touches a finger to the downy chest with feathers black as night. He smiles.

When he tires of riding, they get down from the horse to walk. Possessing a curious nature, and often allowed to explore by his Papa, he would at times stray from the beaten path. Each time he wanders too far, he hears Regina call to him, and he would return to her. They stop for a rest, where the trees are sparse with blue mountains far in the distance, and he discovers a patch of mimosa with little heads of pink flowers. He squats down, and carefully so he doesn’t cause damage to the plant, he brushes the fine leaves with a finger, delighted when they close in on themselves upon contact.

“They don’t like to talk to people,” he informs Regina, poking at another leaf.

_And you? Do you like to talk to people?_

“Papa says I’m shy.”

She smiles at him and hands him the uncorked waterskin.  _Drink_ , she says.

He does. He places his head on her lap, the way he would with Papa. Clouds drift lazily across the sky, white on blue. He wonders if clouds moved the same way too in the land where she’d been.

“Is it like here?” he asks. “In Storybook.”

_Storybrooke?_

He nods, and she tells him about things with strange names, such as ice-cream, which is like sugar candy, but has all sorts of different flavours and is cold like snow. She speaks of sweets that can turn a person’s tongue purple, blue, or green, and he makes a face, sticking out his own tongue. She stretches her arms, widening the distance between her hands as she talks about cars – like carriages, except longer, and they don’t need horses to move.

“Cars,” he says.

The word is foreign in his mouth. He thinks of all the nice things in Storybrooke – of sweets he never got to taste, of toys he never got to play with (things that her son has) – and he gets an uncomfortable feeling, the sort he sometimes has when he’s too tired and needs a nap. Except he isn’t tired at all.

He twists his fingers, his flesh turning white from the pressure. “Henry likes Storybrooke?” he asks, not looking at her.

A pause.

_Yes._

It is barely a whisper, if thoughts could whisper.

He feels it then, something other than that pinched feeling, nudging him as if he’s done what he’s not supposed to, like the time he’d yelled at Papa. He turns on his side, hiding his face in her lap, and would not look up, not even when she calls his name.

_What’s wrong, Roland?_

Her fingers graze his chin, but still he would not look at her.

 _Are you hurt?_  she asks, anxious.

He sniffles and bumps his chest with a fist.

Her brow crinkles.  _You hurt here?_

He nods, tears rolling down his face. An ache inside that he cannot explain, and she does not pry. She does not ask more. She cradles him close, her cheek pressed against his head, and rocks him back and forth, until his sobs quieten, and his pain abates.

**IV.**

The queen is a beautiful woman, and anyone who disagrees is either blind or a fool. At least, that’s what Robin tells himself. His men seem to think she’s cast a spell over him, a notion he scoffs at, though he admits there is something about her that draws him ever since she saved Roland from that wretched simian. Perhaps it’s the way she receives his son with barely-concealed eagerness each day Robin takes him to her chambers, or perhaps it’s how she breaks into a smile as bright as the sun when both queen and boy go on outings together. Maybe it’s both.

He keeps his thoughts to himself, aware of rumours already spreading among his men, how he so readily offers his help whenever it concerns the queen. Though why it should be an issue, he has no idea; he is a man who would right a wrong as long as he is capable of doing so, no matter who the beneficiary is.

When he sends his son off to the queen, his men make it clear he’s made the wrong decision, but he’s seen the way Regina looks at his son, and the way Roland responds to her. He’s seen the little glances, the exchange of smiles (when she thinks no one’s watching), and the stifled giggles of his son, and he knows, if there’s anyone who can help the queen regain her speech – anyone who isn’t her own son – it just might be his child.

So he goes to Snow White with the idea of having both queen and boy spend some time together, and she considers it briefly before agreeing.

“It’d be like therapy,” she remarks, to which he responds with a puzzled expression. “Never mind,” she says. “I think it would be good for Regina to have Roland around. Will he be all right with the arrangement?”

It turns out Roland has no qualms about it at all. While most people view the queen with fear or hate, his son lights up upon hearing he will be spending his days with her, chirping out a merry, “Yes” when asked if he’d like the queen to care for him during the better part of the day.

“Remember to put on your best manners, yeah?” Robin says, and Roland nods solemnly.

A whole week passes with Robin dropping his son off at the queen’s chambers after breakfast and collecting him late afternoon like clockwork. By this time, she must know his reason of having no one else to care for Roland is nothing more than an excuse, but she does not cease the visits. Each time he takes Roland to her, she is there waiting in her silence with a smile, not for him, but for his son, who greets her with a hug and non-stop chatter.

“What is it you do there, lad,” one of the Merry Men asks. “Does she do all sorts of magic tricks for you?”

“You must tell us if she hurts you, all right?” says another.

To which Roland scrunches up his face, stating in a resolute tone, “Regina would never hurt me.”

In the face of the child’s absolute trust and his informal use of the queen’s name, the men find they have nothing more to say. Though Robin believes Regina would never cause harm to his son, not intentionally anyway, he still has concerns of his own. That evening, he takes his son out for a walk, and Roland holds on to him with one hand, and with the other, he clutches the slightly wrinkled paper boat the queen had folded for him earlier that day.

“You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” he says.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll tell me if you’re not happy?”

“I am happy.”

“That’s good.” He gives the child’s hand a squeeze. “That’s all I need to—”

“Can you hear her?” Roland interrupts.

Robin looks at him, confused. “Hear her?”

“Regina.”

He slows and crouches down to the child’s eye level, one hand on the boy’s arm, his heart starting to pound a bit faster. “Does Regina talk to you?”

“Yes,” Roland says. “And no.”

“Yes and no?”

He nods. “Yes and no,” he repeats simply.

After some clarification, it becomes clear to Robin that his son hears the queen’s thoughts. It is an unusual gift, one he knows little about, but Roland can offer no explanation, and since it is unlikely Regina will shed light on the situation, he decides to leave it as it is.

Though Regina still resides in her muteness, he knows he cannot force these things to happen, and so he decides it is best to continue playing his part as a father and the thief with a good heart as both queen and boy build their own little world around them – the child happy, and the queen less anguished.

**V.**

Regina’s magic goes awry the day Roland rolls down the steep side of a hillock. He lands in a heap at the bottom, and panic explodes in her chest, memories of Henry breaking his arm after falling from the monkey bars at playtime. He’d howled and howled, and she’d felt the pain radiating off him in waves, striking her heart, the way it is now with Roland.

Regina scrabbles down after him, sliding gracelessly on grass and dirt, nearly tumbling after him in the same manner. With muscles tense and throat tight, she runs her hands over him, but not quite touching him, not daring to touch him, in case it causes more pain.

_What hurts, Roland? Where? Tell me. I’ll make it better, sweetheart._

She talks to him, bombarding him with questions that she isn’t certain he hears. On and on, he wails, and she spots his right arm lying heavy on his lap, his wrist at an odd angle. But as she places her hands over the injury, and heal, she commands her magic.  _Heal, heal!_

Nothing happens.

She gapes mutely at her hands, breaths coming in quicker, heavier gasps –  _useless, useless!_  a voice mocks – until a heart-wrenching sob pulls her back from the edge, and she remembers him – the child, Roland. She swallows hard and gets onto her knees, ignoring the bite of rocks and grey sand on her skin, and gathers the boy in her arms as gently as possible. He whimpers when she jostles him, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.

 _I’m sorry_ , she cries when he buries his face in her neck, and she feels hot tears down her skin.

Pushing back the voice that threatens to pull her into the darkness, she struggles to her feet. She’ll get them back to the castle, call the royal physician. He will do what she cannot.

She carries him, with each step, his weight grows heavier in her arms, and they return with faces streaked with dirt and tears when the group of men meet them midway on the bridge.

“What’s happened to the lad?” someone demands and grunts impatiently when she is unable to answer him.

Another tries to take Roland, but he clings on to her, so tight that when the man finally wrenches him free, she feels his nails break her skin. Roland screams, his face reddening as he strains towards her, but the man who has him, one of Robin’s men, does not heed him, and Regina watches, helpless, as once more the child is taken from her.

“I knew she wasn’t to be trusted. Look what happened to the boy.”

“She must’ve done something to him.”

They travel to her, whispers not kept low enough, and she finds herself feeling naked and vulnerable under their judgmental stares.

“There’s Robin,” someone announces.

She does not wait to hear what else is said. She turns and flees.

Through stone passageways and spiralling stairways, she goes, stumbling blindly, seeing and yet unseeing, taking refuge in the cold fortress that used to be her prison. She runs, cries ringing in her ears, and the voice she’d stifled comes back to taunt her, “Stupid girl. Useless girl.”

_You think it will make you strong to hurt yourself?_

Words crowding into a space too small. Stabbing agony. Bright spikes of light in her vision. She trips, sprawling onto stone-flagged floor. There is blood on her chin, blood on her hands. The cuts on her arm begin to burn, searing through her like fire as claws edged like knives dig into her womb. She doubles over, a silent scream of pain caught in her throat.

 _Take it away_ , she weeps.  _Please!_

The pain does not leave. Too late for regrets, too late to take back what cannot be undone. Waves of nausea sweep through her, and she retches, a burning in her throat. Someone gathers her up, placing her on somewhere soft – a bed – touching her and pushing back sweaty hair from her face.

_It’s okay, Regina. It’ll only last for a little while._

She shies away, twisting against the covers, and groans for relief, for death to grant her freedom, because if not death, who else would save the one nobody loves?

Then there is silence.

**VI.**

When Robin hears the queen is missing, his first thought is that she’s attempted something life-endangering; his second thought is that he needs to find her. Reassuring Snow he would assist in the search, he allocates different areas to his men, who are less enthusiastic about the task, but they grudgingly obey his instructions, because despite their misgivings, they respect Robin and would not hesitate to lay down their lives for him.

As they scatter to their respective search areas, Robin heads to the south wing of the castle, nodding to Little John, who goes down a different corridor towards the dungeons. With adrenaline pulsing through his body, he barges through doors, worry increasing as each room yields no result, and he tells himself that the queen – that  _Regina_  – will be all right, that she wouldn’t have done anything foolish, not after the bond she’s forged with Roland, but he knows; she’s all too ready to throw her life away.

He finds her in a small, windowless chamber, motionless on the ground, and for a terrifying second, he thinks she’s already gone. But her skin is hot to the touch, and she breathes, lightly, barely, letting out a small sound of protest when he lifts her. With each step he takes to get her help, he listens for her breathing, laboured, pained, and whispers to her, words of reassurance, of promises, partly to her, mostly to keep himself calm as panic threatens to overwhelm him.

He stays after handing her over to the royal physician, pacing outside the chambers as those within work to save her. He ignores curious glances from the prince, who must wonder who the queen is to someone like him, and when one of his Merry Men come to him, saying Roland wishes to see him for he’s been gone a while, he comes to a stop, desires tussling within him.

His son needs him, and he should go, but—

“Go,” the prince says. “I’ll have someone bring you news if her condition changes.”

The royal family, he knows, has no obligation to keep him informed, but the prince looks at him, and it is clear he suspects Robin’s affections for the queen, if he doesn’t already know.

“Thank you,” he says with gratitude.

When Robin returns to the camp, Roland clings on to him. He whines for Regina, pouts, and refuses to eat. For the countless time, Robin patiently tells his son that Regina is busy (for he does not wish to upset the child) but she will ask for him soon.

“Is she mad at me?” Roland asks, voice wavering.

“What? No, lad, she’s not mad at you,” Robin replies, taken aback. “What makes you say that?”

“Don’t know,” he says in a small voice. “Because I fell…and—” he halts, tears in his eyes.

Robin cups the boy’s face. “What happened, Roland?”

He closes his mouth, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he manages.

It troubles Robin, but the boy is distressed and would not speak further.

When the skies turn sapphire at dusk, a messenger appears at their camp, and in private, the young boy, not more than thirteen or fourteen, tells him that the queen is awake, and the princess says to hurry if he’d like to see her. Leaving Roland in the good hands of the friar and again with the promise that he’d see Regina soon (a promises Robin fully intends to keep), he makes his way towards the castle.

“Fair warning,” Snow says when she sees him. “She’s heavily medicated, so it’s likely she won’t know what’s going on.”

He nods. It doesn’t matter to him. Seeing her conscious and knowing she’s in recovery is enough to give him peace of mind.

He enters quietly. Torches on the wall cast shadows and lamps flicker in silence, keeping away the falling darkness. At first he thinks her asleep until he notices her gaze on him, calm, peaceful.

Now that he’s here, all words seem to have fled his mind. He fumbles a bit, unsure of himself, unsure how she would react to his presence. He takes a seat in the chair by her bed, right by the small harp, half-wondering if she plays. She follows his motions with mild, ebony eyes, half-lidded with drowsiness. She is pallid and clearly ill, but she is alive.

He keeps watch over her until the sun slips over the horizon. Snow returns to get him, a look of sympathy and apology on her face, as it will not do to have rumours spreading of a man – especially someone of his status, he knows – spending the night in the queen’s chambers without her consent.

On his journey back, he thinks of all he could have said, though she would not have heard him. Perhaps another time he would tell her of a thief’s love for a queen, and, perhaps, she would tell him a queen could love a thief too.

**VII.**

A week has passed since the accident, and Regina’s magic does not return. She does not know when it will –  _if_  it will. She feels it like an emptiness inside her, as if part of her soul has been hollowed out. She no longer tries to seek out the spark; there is nothing but dead ashes.

She makes it clear she would see none of them except Snow and the royal physician, and only out of necessity. It rankles to ask for help, but she’s tired of the stench of sweat and blood on her unwashed body, and she’s liable to end up on the floor in a dead faint if she tries to take a bath on her own.

“Roland’s doing well,” Snow mentions as she helps Regina pull a fresh nightgown over her head. “Robin says his arm’s healing just fine.”

It does little to assuage her guilt.

She thinks often of the thief and the boy. She’d dreamed of him – Robin – the night before her fever had broken, as if he’d been in the room with her, but it couldn’t have been, not after what happened. What she wishes is a memory is only a fanciful daydream.

She pushes away her tray of untouched food, the smell of fatty deer meat causing her stomach to roil. She should’ve known things were too good to last. Everyone who comes close eventually ends up getting hurt. She has no right to demand them to stay. Even she does not want them to stay.

She doesn’t.

She struggles to her feet towards the balcony to the sweet scent of flowering trees, settling in the chair near the wall that would shield her from the wind. There she traces the pattern of blue veins along her wrist, studies the healing scars on her arm, and craves the relief that would wash over her if she would simply spill the pain locked within her. If only she could—

Someone raps on the door, and she pulls her fingers away from her skin with a start, scowling a moment later. She’s done nothing wrong by simple contemplation.

It is Robin who has come to visit. The scent of pine and earth clings to him the way the smell of baled hay in the stables reminds her of Daniel. Fresh pain wells up inside her, and she pushes away the thought, sealing it away along with memories that cause her nothing but grief.

“I apologize, milady,” he begins, breaking the silence. “I know you wished for no visitors.”

She stares straight ahead. She would not admit some part of her is comforted by his presence.

“Roland misses you,” he says. “He asks about you every day.”

She blinks at the unexpected prick of tears in her eyes, and even more surprisingly, at the flicker of anger his words bring about inside her, a flame that scorches her within. What does he expect by telling her how much his son desires to see her? Does he not know she causes harm to anyone who dares come near? Is he here to rub salt in her wounds?

She would not trust the well-being of her own son with someone like her.

“Regina,” he says, his voice catching, and why does it sound like he hurts for her?

She looks down to find her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. She lets out the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, releases it slowly, and unclenches her fists, leaving crescent marks on flesh.

“No one blames you for what happened, Regina.” His voice softens. “I don’t.”

 _Lies,_  a voice cries in her head. She’s seen the looks on his men’s faces, knows they think her responsible, and perhaps the accusations are well-deserved. How can she believe him when even she blames herself for what happened?

She jerks, takes in a shuddering breath. He hunkers down by her chair, concern in those beautiful eyes of his, blue like summer skies, the way Daniel’s were, and he lays a hand gently on her cheek, cupping her face. In her mind, thoughts spin wildly, of how he shouldn’t be doing this, and how she shouldn’t let him, but he does, and she does not wish for him to stop, though he’s a thief and she a queen. Has she ever truly cared for titles anyway?

“Regina,” he breathes.

He kisses her, tentatively first, his lips barely brushing hers, and she responds, moving against him, the soft pressure tantalizing, light, sweet. He kisses her and kisses her again, and it is laughable to think someone could ever love her, but she thinks he does, and an emotion long forgotten bubbles up inside her, quick and intense, and it both thrills and scares her, so much so that all the memories of having loved and lost – and the  _pain_  – come rushing back to the surface in an instant.

She pulls away abruptly, shaking and pressing herself against the back of the chair, trying to catch her breath, and does not know she is crying until he brushes his thumb against her tears.

“It’s all right,” he says as if he understands.

He steps back, giving her space, and she grips the arms of the chair to prevent herself from reaching out to him. She will not behave like a needy child. She will not act like one craving for attention and affection.

“It’s Roland’s birthday tomorrow.”

She looks up at him through wet lashes, fleetingly, half in shame for her tears.

“We would love for you to join us.”

He smiles, and it is soft and sweet, and she knows she will be there.

**VIII.**

Regina drags herself out of the chair and makes her way to the castle’s kitchen not far from the servants’ quarters, ignoring stares and whispers of “isn’t that the queen” and stops on the threshold of the arched doorway. By the roaring fire supplying heat in the cold kitchen, the old wolf sits in her rocking chair, knitting from a ball of teal yarn.

She pauses, resting her weight on the stone wall for support and trying not to seem like she needs it to hold herself up, when Granny speaks, “What is it you want?”

Her tone is not unfriendly, but it is not welcoming either.

Regina shuffles to the nearest table and sets down the tools she’s brought along with her: a rolled-up piece of parchment, an inkblot, and a quill – items she’d sourced from her room while lamenting the non-existence of technology and its convenience in the realm. Dipping the tip of the quill in ink, she sets it onto the parchment, scribbling her request before lifting the paper up for Granny to read.

The old lady raises her brows. “You want me to teach you to sew?”

Regina mentally rolls her eyes. Bending her head, she writes:  _A tunic. For Roland._

She hesitates.

 _Please,_  she adds, underlining the word.

Granny stares at her script for a long time. Regina shifts. The fire crackles.

“All right,” the old lady says. “But you follow my every instruction, you hear me?”

Regina nods.

“Good,” she grunts. “Now sit yourself down before you fall over.”

The first time Regina works with a needle and thread, she pricks herself, drawing blood, and Granny mutters disparagingly about how she ought to know better with her history with sleeping potions. She spends the rest of the day and the entire night in the kitchen with Granny insisting Regina position herself near the fire and every three to four hours put something – usually broth is all she can keep down – in her stomach (or else she would faint dead away).

Little by little, she pieces together the olive-green fabric, and at its collar, weaves in a simple pattern with gold thread. She finishes the tunic in the early hours of the morning with fingers aching and eyes gritty.

It is not perfect, she thinks as she looks at it, but perhaps it is good enough.

Granny looks over her work with a critical eye before gracing her with a gruff, “It will do for the boy.”

The noise of popping fireworks and explosions of colours in the dark sky of dawn give her direction, and as she approaches the Merry Men’s camp, anxiety creeps in, tightening her throat. She is not a talented seamstress. Such crafts are meant for those of lesser status, those who need to work for a living, and she never had to learn them, not when she always had the best provided for her and the best to offer with both money and magic at her fingertips.

She could gift Roland with riches and far better clothes, but what she has in her hands is worth more than anything else she can give to a child as dear to her as a son. They would not understand, and they would wonder how a queen would bestow such an inadequate gift to the boy. What would they think of her gift that seems utterly sub-par, a humble tunic with crooked stitches?

She falters in her steps, thinking it best to return to her chambers, when a boyish squeal cries out—

“Regina!”

A warm weight crashes into her, nearly knocking her over, and it is Roland who has an arm wrapped around her knees, his other forearm in a cast, which dampens her mood, but he is looking up at her with large brown eyes shining with gladness, and he’s chattering.

“Did you see the fireworks, Regina?” He does a little jump, all delight and excitement, the grin wide on his face. “Someone came by with a tall hat and a long beard, and I told him it was my birthday, and he gave me fireworks!”

He speaks fast, some of his words jumbled up, but he is adorable, and she kneels, smiling at him.

 _They’re very pretty, Roland,_  she says.

He nods emphatically and drapes his good arm over her neck, almost shyly, so that she’d have to pick him up with her when she stands. But she remains on the ground, afraid to let him fall a second time.

“Roland, my lad,” she hears Robin call, and with him, two of his men.

She recognizes the taller one as the man who’d taken Roland from her. As if understanding her thoughts, though she’d not directed them to him, Roland tightens his arm around her, his little body pressing closer to hers. Robin stops in front of them with a grin, and she flushes, remembering his lips on hers, and that wonderful, terrible feeling rising within her. She drops her eyes to the ground.

“What did I tell you about running into the forest without letting someone know where you’re going?” Robin says, his voice stern as he talks to his son.

“I heard Regina,” Roland mumbles, his lower lip edging out.

She cannot help feeling sorry for the child (it is his birthday after all), and she hugs him, saying, _I brought you a gift._

Roland brightens. “You did?”

She pretends the men aren’t watching her with Roland and shows him the tied-up bundle she’d carried with her. She tugs at the knot of the dark blue cloth of silk, her heart in her throat, conscious that that alone must cost more than the gift itself, but as she lets the fabric fall open to reveal the tunic she’d spent hours sewing, Roland – the sweet, precious,  _precious_  child – lights up as if she’d bequeathed to him an entire kingdom.

“It’s beautiful,” he exclaims in awe, picking it up with both hands, and then spinning around to show his father. “Papa, Papa, look what Regina gave me! Isn’t it beautiful?”

There are tears in her eyes, and when he returns to her, she tugs him close, and she whispers—

“Happy.”

It is rough and raspy and more air than sound, but she speaks, and she breathes, and she thinks of Roland with his unconditional trust, of Robin and him choosing to love her, and when she releases, “—birthday,” with a gasp, Roland breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sun.


End file.
